Semper Fidelis: A Novel of the Roman Empire

by Ruth Downie

  “I thought so,” said the emperor, seeming not to notice his confusion. “I never forget a face. I don’t know why I bother having a man to tell me who people are: Half the time I know more than he does. Ruso. You were one of the rescuers in Antioch. A terrible business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re in charge here now?”

  He said, “I’m only here for a few days, sir. Pera’s usually the man to talk to.”

  Pera, who must have thought he had escaped, did not look grateful to be placed back in the target area.

  Hadrian glanced from one to the other of them with an air of amusement.

  “Ah, Pera. Back to you. So what can you tell me about the Britons?”

  Pera’s hand rose to his neck. “Th-they’ve calmed down a lot since last year, Your Majesty.”

  “So I hear,” agreed Hadrian, apparently satisfied. “But I’ll be leaving the Sixth over here in case there’s any more trouble.”

  Pera swallowed, as if he was not sure whether he should thank the emperor or not. Hadrian, evidently used to smoothing over conversations with the tongue-tied, turned to Ruso. “So, Doctor Who Isn’t in Charge, how are you finding things in Eboracum?”

  Ruso glanced round at the faces: one or two sympathetic, most bored, Pera rigid. They were waiting for him to answer this bland question with something suitably reassuring.

  This is not the time. The emperor had affairs of state waiting for him, and a crowd of ambassadors following him around like a long unwieldy tail. He didn’t want a litany of complaints any more than Ruso wanted a list of symptoms after casually asking an acquaintance about his welfare.

  But Geminus’s regime in Eboracum had left recruits dead and injured, families bereaved, a woman and child abandoned …

  He was conscious of Hadrian assessing him, the famously piercing eyes seeing an officer who was too nervous to go far.

  He took a deep breath. “It’s a lot better than Antioch, sir.”

  Hadrian chuckled. “Indeed. Now, while the pair of you decide who’s in charge, I shall visit some of your patients.”

  Later, Ruso could remember very little about Hadrian’s tour of the hospital. Austalis, whose injury was not explained, was declared to be “a brave lad.” There were occasional silences that Pera stepped in to fill. Meanwhile Tilla’s question was echoing around his mind. If this was not the time, then when was?

  As the senior doctor, he was surely not just here to patch up the sick and wounded as they were presented to him, any more than a commander’s only role in battle was to stand in the front line and stab the enemy one by one. It was his duty to organize the defences, to devise strategies that might prevent them from harm in the first place. It was his duty to challenge something that was making the men here very sick indeed.

  Yet, when a man with the power to change things had asked him how things were in Eboracum, he had pushed aside his duty and said the sort of thing his superiors wanted to hear. Thinking of Marcus’s battered face as he remembered the glib It’s a lot better than Antioch, sir made him feel hot with shame.

  Hadrian was leaving the bedside of the last overawed patient. “Well, your men seem to be doing a good job in here.”

  Pera said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Everyone else began to shuffle out behind him. It was over. Hadrian was happy. Everyone was satisfied. The reputation of the Twentieth was intact, and Ruso had missed his chance.

  As the last flunky filed out, Ruso dodged past him into the corridor. “Your Majesty! Sir!”

  Everyone turned. The hangers-on looked shocked. Hadrian looked impatient, then glanced at his friends. “Did I forget something?”

  “Sir, you asked a question and I didn’t answer it properly.”

  Beyond Hadrian he could see Pera in the corridor, eyes wide in horror. He should have rehearsed this, he realized now. Hadrian was used to receiving ambassadors who had been polishing their speeches for months. But it was too late. This was his moment, and instead of feeling bold he was shaking as if he had just offered himself up to an underfed tiger.

  One of the flunkies stepped forward and murmured, “Sir, the recruits will be waiting to start their trials.”

  “In a moment,” Hadrian snapped. Ruso quailed at the annoyance in the voice.

  “My lord,” he said, switching to Greek. At least the patients wouldn’t understand. “My lord, I think I should tell the truth.”

  Hadrian’s expression was stern. “I think that would be a good idea.”

  “My lord …” He stopped, conscious that everyone was waiting to hear what he had to say. If only he could speak privately with the great man … but Hadrian, by dint of his very greatness, was perpetually surrounded by other people.

  Hadrian indicated his rotund secretary and the lanky Praetorian prefect. “These are my friends. You can speak openly.”

  That was when Ruso noticed the nondescript man loitering at the back of the group. Metellus, security adviser to the outgoing governor. Metellus, who had put Tilla’s name on one of his infamous lists. Metellus, whom Ruso had last seen flailing about in the muddy waters of the river Tamesis—after Ruso himself had pushed him in there.

  “Well?” said Hadrian.

  Ruso cleared his throat. “My lord, there are good men here in Eboracum. But there are also men who order their juniors to face dangers just for the pleasure of betting on the outcome. Three Britons who joined your legion to serve you are dead because of it.”

  He stopped speaking. Somewhere, someone slammed a door. The crash echoed down the corridor. Everyone except Metellus was watching Hadrian to see how he would respond. Metellus was watching Ruso.

  This was not the time. He saw that now. He had allowed Tilla to push him into a terrible, catastrophic mistake.

  The great man lifted his head. “I see.” Behind him, faces appeared, peering round the end of the corridor. Even if they didn’t understand, someone would be bound to translate for them as soon as the emperor was gone.

  “Have you informed your superiors?”

  It was a question he should have foreseen.

  Tell the truth again. Just leave parts out. “Tribune Accius is aware that something’s wrong, my lord, but I’ve only just found out the details for him.”

  “Well, I’m sure he will deal with it appropriately.”

  And with that, the moment was over. Hadrian and his entourage swept out of the hospital entrance and away down the street.

  Pera must have slunk away. Ruso was alone in the entrance hall. He leaned against the wall, feeling nauseous.

  At a time like this, a man should be comforted by philosophy. Virtue, said the Stoics, was the only possession worth having. But he was no longer sure that he knew what virtue was, and the faint whisper that Tilla would be proud of him was not going to be enough to sustain him through the storm that was to come.

  Chapter 41

  “I am only saying what you are both thinking,” declared Sabina, pushing away the bowl of dates whose shape and color had reminded her that this place might have cockroaches. “Germania was bad enough. Did you see all those ghastly people?”

  “I am sure the emperor knows best, madam,” Tranquillus assured her.

  “And I’m sure this couch is damp.” She gestured to the steward. “Have them find me something else to sit on.”

  The steward nodded to one of the slaves, who flitted out through a side door.

  “Britannia is a very prestigious posting, madam,” said Clarus.

  Sabina frowned at the flaking paint of what was supposed to be the best room, and ordered more coals for the brazier. “If Britannia were so marvelous,” she continued, “Tranquillus would have come here when he first had the chance, instead of finding ways of wriggling out of it. Wouldn’t you, Tranquillus? You could have had a glittering military career.”

  Tranquillus modestly inclined his head. “I am honored to be the emperor’s secretary, madam.”

  “Oh, be honest, both of you. You would b
oth rather be at home with your noses stuck in scrolls than trailing around all over the empire. And after all this bother, not a blue face to be seen anywhere! Do you think the painted ones have run away?”

  “I believe they are on the far side of the emperor’s Great Wall, Madam.”

  “Along with the land of eternal day, I suppose.”

  Clarus examined a date before biting off one end. “Very possibly, madam.”

  “They murdered Lollia’s husband, you know. And both of poor Favonia’s sons.”

  Tranquillus said, “I am sure the emperor will not put you in danger, madam.”

  She sighed. “No. I’m not even allowed to risk listening to your book about prostitutes.”

  “Madam, if the emperor thinks it suitable—”

  “We both know that if the emperor thinks it will entertain me, it will not be suitable.”

  Clarus glanced at his friend, but Tranquillus had developed a sudden interest in rubbing an ink stain off his forefinger. Clarus helped himself to another date while he was still chewing the first one.

  “Surely there must be something both respectable and interesting to do here while one’s husband talks about walls?” demanded Sabina. “What about the famous native warrior women? Could you find one of those for me to look at?”

  “I believe they’re all dead, madam.” Was that a touch of condescension in Clarus’s voice?

  “Oh, dear. I shall have to spend the afternoon writing to tell Julia that you’re both terribly boring and she isn’t missing anything.”

  Tranquillus looked worried. “Madam, if there is anything we can do …”

  “You can introduce me to someone who isn’t a homesick officer’s wife, a screaming barbarian, or some dreadful woman married to a tribal chief with hairs in his nose.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a military trumpet sounded. The silence inside the room was finally broken by the faint sound of someone clearing their throat. She turned. “You have something to say?”

  The steward took a step forward and bowed.

  “Speak.”

  “Madam, there is a native midwife who is married to one of our officers. She came to help prepare the house for you.”

  “Really? Is she a better midwife than she is a cleaner?”

  The steward did not know. She glanced at Clarus and Tranquillus, who were clearly hoping the steward’s intervention would divert some of her irritation from them. “Shall we have her fetched?”

  Tranquillus looked appalled. “A midwife, madam?”

  Clarus said, “A housecleaner?”

  Sabina smiled. “And an officer’s wife. I think I should like to meet her.”

  “She’ll have to be checked first,” insisted Clarus. “I’ll need a name.”

  Sabina sighed. “Clarus, you have a very large sword. We are surrounded by the servants and you can call your guards. If none of those can deal with her, Tranquillus will stab her with his stylus. I think I shall be safe from one woman, don’t you?”

  Chapter 42

  The legate’s house still smelled of fresh paint, and the slave girl who had told Tilla to wait in the yellow entrance hall had a smear of the same color on the shoulder of her tunic.

  Tilla, left alone to wonder why the empress wanted to see her, glanced out at the courtyard garden. It had been a mass of brambles before yesterday’s desperate slash-and-burn preparations. Plants in pots had been commandeered from somewhere, and slaves were scurrying back and forth between the rooms she had helped to sweep and air yesterday afternoon. Through an open door she could see the wall hanging Minna had ordered put up to hide a damp patch. She wondered what it would be like to live surrounded by servants, with everything you wanted supplied for you, and with hundreds—maybe thousands—of armed men outside who would do whatever your husband told them. It might be very lonely.

  An approaching male voice said, “They have searched her for weapons, I take it?”

  Oh, yes, thought Tilla. Very thoroughly, and not with respect.

  The slave with the paint on her tunic reappeared. “The empress will see you now.”

  Moments later Tilla was announced as “The British woman, madam.”

  She stepped into the big room with the cracked windowpanes and found herself under scrutiny. There were four women, three of whose plain slave tunics were finer than anything she had ever owned, and two ill-matched men in middle age: a lanky bald one looking uncomfortable in Praetorian uniform and a short one with a potbelly and inky fingers.

  Sabina herself was seated in a basket chair and draped in pale gold silk. While two of the slaves adjusted the curls on her complicated hairstyle, she surveyed Tilla as if she were examining a piece of fruit for blemishes. The beautifully made-up eyes were puffy, and Tilla suspected she had not slept well.

  The slave girl who had brought her in stepped forward and murmured in Tilla’s ear, “Do not stare at the empress!”

  “Her hair is rather scruffy,” observed the empress. “And she isn’t blue at all. Ah, well. Do we have anyone who can translate?”

  “I speak Latin, mistress,” said Tilla, addressing the thin fingers resting in the imperial lap. She was not sure what to call this woman. She did not want to get her husband into trouble. On the other hand, if empresses were fussy about who looked at them and what they were called, then they should arrange for someone to say so earlier.

  “How convenient,” said Sabina, not sounding in the least embarrassed about her rudeness. “Not quite the barbarian I was hoping for, but never mind. Cheer up, young woman. I have not brought you here to terrify you.”

  Someone must have told the empress about her. Perhaps she was here to be thanked for all her hard work.

  Sabina said, “I hear one of our officers has married you.”

  “I have married him also, mistress,” said Tilla. “My people choose our own men.”

  “So I hear. Well, I am glad not all the Britons are hostile to us, although you are rather forward. Tell me something. I have also heard that your men share their wives.”

  Tilla hesitated. Wretched Julius Caesar again. “I cannot speak for all the tribes, mistress. But I can tell you that no woman of my people would lie with a man she does not like.”

  “You are very frank for a young woman with no position.”

  Tilla was tired of looking anywhere but at the woman’s face. “I am trying to answer honestly,” she said, meeting the empress’s scrutiny. “You are a guest in these islands, and it would be inhospitable to lie to you.”

  The men looked from her to Sabina. The empress’s brittle laughter seemed to come as a relief to everyone. “A guest in our own province! How quaint! Tell me, why are none of you blue?”

  What was it that made Romans so interested in this sort of thing?

  “Warriors paint themselves, mistress. Perhaps everyone did it in Caesar’s day, but I have never heard of it.” Just to be helpful, she added, “I have never heard of men hunting each other for sport, either.”

  “Really?” The girl doing the hair above the left ear let go just in time as Sabina turned to the men. “You see? Even the barbarians have stricter standards than we do.”

  “I suppose there’s no money for games here,” put in the lanky man. “It does look horribly poor.”

  “Well, so far this is rather disappointing. Is it at least true that you are a midwife and your husband is a medicus with the Twentieth Legion?”

  Relieved to be asked something sensible at last, Tilla said, “I deliver babies, mistress, and I help my husband with the civilian patients and medicines.” And perhaps, she saw suddenly, she could help someone else. “My husband is a good man,” she said. “He is trying to stop a centurion who is gambling away the lives of his recruits while the tribune stands by and does nothing.”

  Sabina’s face tightened. “The army is not our concern. The emperor does not need advice and he would not like anyone to interfere in his business.”

  The empress was not as empty-headed as she pr
etended to be. “I try not to interfere, mistress. I just try to find something useful to do, as the gods have not yet granted us children.”

  “I shall pray for you.”

  Tilla bowed her head. “And I for you, mistress. There is always hope. Not long ago I delivered a first child for a woman who had been married for seventeen winters.”

  “I see,” said Sabina, not warmly. “Well, this has been very interesting.” Again the hairdresser slaves lifted their hands just in time as Sabina turned to consult the men. “Do we have any more questions for her, gentlemen?”

  They did not.

  “You may leave us now. Oh, and, girl …?”

  “Mistress?”

  Was that a faint smile creasing the makeup on the imperial cheeks? “Do not pray too hard.”

  As she backed out of the room, Tilla heard the empress laughing. She hoped it was nothing to do with her.

  Chapter 43

  It was mid-afternoon before the summons came from the tribune. Ruso finished splinting the broken wrist he had treated on his arrival, then handed over his responsibilities to Pera, who was the only person with any authority who seemed prepared to speak to him. Neither of them had said a word to the other about Ruso’s conversation with the emperor, but just as he was leaving, Pera murmured, “Good luck, sir.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been much help here, Pera.”

  “Only the gods can work miracles, sir. We mortals just have to do our best.”

  Ruso shook his head. “I must have been a pompous ass as a tutor.”

  “Not as much of an ass as I was, sir.”

  They clasped hands, then Ruso turned on his heel and followed the messenger down the corridor. He gave Aesculapius a farewell nod before he stepped out into the street.

  “You should have—come—to me—first!” hissed Accius, leaving gaps between the words for emphasis, as if he would have liked to shout but did not want to be overheard by any of the men passing back and forth across the headquarters hall outside.

  “You deliberately undermined me! I had to sit next to him for hours, looking like a complete idiot while he oversaw the exercises. As if I don’t know what’s going on in my own unit!”